*4'J 
THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
Let dimpled Mirth his temples twine 
With tendrils of the laughing vine; 
The manly oak, the pensive yew, 
To patriot and to sage be due ; 
The myrtle bough bids lovers live, 
But that Matilda will not give ; 
Then, lady, twine no wreath for me, 
Or twine it of the cypress-tree. 
Let merry England proudly rear 
Her blended roses, bought so dear; 
Let Albin bind her bonnet blue 
With heath and harebell dipped in dew ,\ 
On favoured Erin’s crest be seen 
The flower she loves of emerald green— 
But, lady, twine no wreath for me, 
Or twine it of the cypress-tree. 
Strike the wild harp, while maids prepar 
The ivy meet for minstrel’s hair; 
And while his crown of laurel leaves 
With bloody hand the victor weaves, 
Let the loud trump his triumph tell; 
But when you hear the passing bell, 
Then, lady, twine a wreath for me, 
And twine it of the cypress-tree. 
Yes ! twine for me the cypress bough ; 
But, O Matilda, twine not now ! 
Stay till a few brief months are past, 
And I have looked and loved my last 1 
When villagers my shroud bestrew 
With pansies, rosemary, and rue,— 
Then, lady, weave a wreath for me, 
And weave it of the cypress-tree. 
